The Longest Two Minutes of My Week

I took Hannah to the doctor this week for a blood blister on the bottom of her foot. It was hurting her pretty badly and she could barely walk.

That first whiff of rubbing alcohol told me what was about to happen. I think Hannah knew it, too, although the word ‘lance’ might not have been in her vocabulary yet.

(I guarantee you, it is now.)

The second the doctor pulled out a needle things went south.

One nurse grabbed Hannah’s shoulders, another nurse grabbed her foot. I had the dubious pleasure of holding her leg straight while the doctor dove in with the needle. I leaned all my weight against her, holding her in place.

Hannah screamed in my ear, hot tears running down her face and onto my arm. I stroked her hair back from her red and sweaty forehead with my free hand, ineffectually whispering “shh, shh” as if that somehow made things better.

The writer part of my brain chose this moment to step back and say, Remember this. You can use this.

My mom-brain growled at the writer, Goddammit, now?! You want to do this NOW?!

The writer looked at the mother and shrugged, all wide eyed innocence. What? This is good shit.

So here are some thoughts the writer gathered from the longest two minutes of my week.

I paid fifty dollars for this?

Why oh why can’t I just leave the room so the medical professionals can be the bad guy?

Oh Jesus the whole waiting room can hear her screaming through the walls. Babies are crying right now. Toddlers are stampeding for the elevator.

These poor nurses and doctor. I gave birth to the worst patient they’ve seen all day.

And yet, I kind of want to stab all three of them in the foot with the same needle they’re using to hurt my baby.

We left the doctor’s office and climbed into the car. On the way home Hannah was calm.

I, however, was exhausted.

Hannah said, “My foot feels funny, Mom.”

I stiffened. “Does it hurt?”

“No. But it feels like there’s a hole in it.”

She flipped the radio station and started singing along to Taylor Swift’s Bad Blood.

That’s when my own reaction caught up with me. Involuntary tears filled my eyes. I gripped the steering wheel and took deep breaths, keeping my eyes on the cars ahead of me.

Hannah looked over at me. “Are you gonna cry?” she asked, puzzled.

“Maybe,” I said, not blinking.

“Why?”

“Never mind,” I said, swiping one hand at my eyes. “You’ll understand when you have kids.”

xoxo,

Meghan

I love comments! Every time you leave a comment a baby stops crying and stampeding toddlers are thwarted.

5 Responsesso far.

She just came to me and said her foot feels better. She demonstrated by walking across the room sans limp.
“Hannah that’s awesome! That’s the most you’ve walked all week!”
“Yeah,” she said, then frowned thoughtfully. “I guess… thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
Then we looked at each other awkwardly. Because we both knew that ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ didn’t quite cover the horror that happened this week.

Meghan, you are a great mommy. You don’t know this nor do many of your readers that know me. My daughter Emily who is now 10 years old was a preemie. She spent the first 6 weeks of her life in Women’s Hospital of Texas NICU. She was stuck, prodded, poked most of the time she was in NICU. And then watching her suffer through all the childhood shots, more pain. For me too! Today is as normal as me. (No comments from those that know me)